


An Inauspicious Beginning

by Kiraly



Series: Kiraly's Hipster Band AU [3]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bar Room Brawl, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day is a bad day for Mikkel Madsen. When a feisty redhead harasses him on the job, his night goes from bad to worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Inauspicious Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homecriticismchef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homecriticismchef/gifts).



> This is based on another request from my Tumblr birthday giveaway. Homecriticismchef requested a drawing that would shed some light on how Sigrun and Mikkel met in my hipster AU _(Before It Was Cool)_ and then won the extra gift when I did the random number drawing. So in addition to a drawing I also wrote a fic! Which is actually perfect because this story was really fun to write, and it helped me figure out what to draw.
> 
> This story takes place around 10 years before _Before It Was Cool_ (and you don't need to have read that to read this).

Sooner or later, everyone ends up face down in a gutter. At least, that was what Mikkel told himself as he pushed to his knees and willed his head to stop spinning. The alternative—that this hellish moment belonged exclusively to him—was too depressing to think about. He spat a piece of gravel into the oil-slicked puddle, hoping it hadn’t actually been a tooth. _This must be the worst day of my life._

The day had started badly. Which is to say, it started like every other day; at this point in his life all of Mikkel’s days were bad. Not that anyone would ever know from looking at him. His outward stoicism hadn’t changed, not even when the family stuff happened and the scholarships fell through and his first year of medical school became his last. Some people went out blazing when their dreams died. Mikkel had simply grown quiet.

Silence was no problem in his line of work. No one needed a bouncer to be eloquent, only intimidating enough to discourage people from doing anything that would get them thrown out of the bar. Mikkel was good at that, thanks to genetics and a tendency to never smile. As long as he showed up, checked IDs, and took care of the people who’d had a few too many, everything was fine. It was when he opened his mouth that he got in trouble.

“THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING, MADSEN!” It was hard to gauge Olsen’s mood by his tone of voice, since the man shouted everything. In this case though, Mikkel could safely assume his boss was angry.

“THERE WILL BE NO MORE UNQUALIFIED MEDICAL ADVICE! IF A BARTENDER CUTS HIMSELF SHAVING YOU WILL NOT TELL HIM HE HAS FACE CANCER! IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

Mikkel had to suppress a rare smile that threatened to crack his stony exterior. The look on that idiot’s face had been well worth this assault on his ears. And he failed to see how it was _his_ fault he’d been believed. Face cancer, _honestly_. If someone was gullible enough to believe such a thing was possible, he probably deserved to believe it was happening to him.

But he said none of that to Olsen, only nodded and went back to his post by the door. There was already a small crowd waiting to enter, and for a while he relaxed into the routine of checking identification and staring down underage students who pretended they’d left theirs at home. People passed through the door in a monotonous stream, until—

“Excuse me, miss, I need to see your ID.”

The young woman ignored him and kept walking. Mikkel put a stop to _that_ by putting _himself_ between her and the bar. “Your identification,” he repeated.

She put her hands on her hips and favored him with a grin. “Gimme a smile, and maybe I’ll show you,” she said.

Mikkel’s face remained unchanged. “Why don’t I show you the door instead?”

She let out a dramatic sigh and produced an ID from somewhere. Mikkel reached for it, but before he could lay a hand on it she transferred it from her hand to the bodice of her tight black dress. “Here. If you wanna see it so bad, take it!”

Mikkel folded his arms and sighed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She wasn’t the first to try something like this, but she was more persistent than most. When would these kids learn to wait? Olsen’s joint wasn’t particularly glamorous or “edgy”, but its proximity to student housing and low prices made it popular among the college crowd. Their bright-eyed enthusiasm got under Mikkel’s skin at the best of times, and their constant attempts to get around age regulations made him feel far older than his 24 years. This girl was just one more nuisance flaunting the rules. He hoped she’d go without a fuss.

Unsurprisingly, she didn’t. She didn’t try to protest, though, which _was_ surprising. Instead, she leaned forward to look him in the eyes—in her high-heeled boots, she was as tall as he was—and let out a booze-scented chuckle. “You’re not much for flirting, are you?” she said. “Sorry, I just thought I’d tweak your tail a little. You look like someone who needs to relax.” She retrieved her ID from its resting place and passed it over.

Mikkel stared at her, then down at her identification, then back at her face. “You’re twenty-two?” He scrutinized the card in his hand again, but the picture was definitely her—though younger and longer-haired—and he couldn’t spot any telltale signs of forgery.

She nodded, held her hand to take the card back. “Sure.”

“Then why on earth didn’t you just show me your ID when I asked for it?” Mikkel demanded. It made no sense.

She shrugged. “Where’s the fun in that? Anyway, I have a date with a tall glass of something-or-other, so unless you’ve changed your mind about that smile…?”

Mikkel shook his head, and she shook hers regretfully. “Then I’m off to the bar. Good talk, man.”

* * *

 

That should have been that. Usually once people got past Mikkel’s checkpoint, they forgot about him and flung themselves into the more entertaining features of the bar. He only had to interact with them if they had a problem—or caused one. Unfortunately, the red-haired, rule-breaking woman was one of the latter.

He heard the shouting first. It took a minute to work out where it was coming from, and another to push his way through the crowd to isolate its source. He got there just in time to see the first punch land. Spectators lunged forward—whether to calm the fight or escalate it, Mikkel couldn’t say—but the sight of him looming sent most of them hurrying away. That left a clear space around the swearing man with blood running from a freshly-broken nose and the red-headed woman from earlier. She was swearing too, rubbing her knuckles.

“Dammit! Why do the rude ones always have the thickest skulls? You ready to apologize yet, or do I have to deck you again?”

The bleeding man did not look in any way apologetic. “Dat bitch broke by doze!” He hauled back a fist and started to swing—only to turn and stare as his arm, firmly in Mikkel’s grip, refused to budge.

“None of that. Cool down or take it out—” the sentence went unfinished as the man dodged another punch from the redhead, which collided with Mikkel’s jaw. “Hey!”

“Sorry big guy, I was aiming for—ooh, that’s gonna sting.” The man in Mikkel’s grasp had elbowed him in the eye.

Mikkel’s saw stars. Then he saw red, and it wasn’t only the woman’s hair. “Right, that’s enough.” He twisted his assailant around, knocked his forehead against a table to quiet him down, and dragged him through the crowd to the door. “Don’t come back.” He heaved the man out the door, then stormed back inside to deal with his other problem.

The woman was still examining her hand, but she looked up when Mikkel approached. “Hey, do you know if this bar has some tape or something? I think I broke my thumb on that guy.”

Mikkel stared at her. “You broke his _nose,_ ” he pointed out. Then, belatedly, “and you have to go now. No fighting allowed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and I would have broken more if you hadn’t stepped in. Dude was a total creep. Nice job getting him out of here, by the way. Totally badass, the way you bashed his head on the table.”

“Thank you. I mean...no, look, rules are rules. You have to leave, miss.”

“Miss?” The redhead snorted a laugh. “We’ve just been in a bar fight and you’re talking like a textbook. Sigrun Eide,” she said, thrusting a hand at him.

“Mikkel Madsen.” He reached for her hand automatically, but paused when he noticed the blood on her knuckles. “Didn’t you say that thumb was broken?”

Sigrun followed his gaze. “Oh, yeah. Maybe. Rookie mistake, I should’ve been more careful. About that tape—”

“I can’t just give you medical assistance, I’m supposed to be throwing you out!” Mikkel protested. He knew he was arguing with himself more than anything, though. He was already rummaging behind the bar for the first aid kit and a plastic bag to fill with ice. Still, mending people wasn’t his job, and throwing them out of bars was. “And I will throw you out if I have to. Don’t make me pick you up and carry you,” he warned.

Sigrun’s eyes gleamed. “I’d like to see you try.”

She was probably joking. But part of the Madsen brand of humor was taking people seriously when they least expected it. So Mikkel chose to take Sigrun at her word. “All right, if you insist.” He caught her around the waist and hefted her over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“Whoa! I didn’t mean you should actually—huh. You’re pretty strong. Maybe I should get you to carry me everywhere, I could get used to this.”

_Damn this horrible woman. Is everything a joke to her? I only wanted a quiet night, and now—_

“MADSEN!”

So much for quiet.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? LOOK AT THESE BROKEN CHAIRS. LOOK AT THAT TABLE, IT HAS BLOOD ON IT! WHY ARE YOU CARRYING A WOMAN OVER YOUR SHOULDER?”

Mikkel maintained a perfectly straight face. “I’m removing her from the bar, as per the rules about customers who start fights. Which is my job.”

Olsen turned so red, Mikkel half-expected steam to come out of his ears. “IT IS NOT YOUR JOB TO BASH HEADS AGAINST TABLES! OR TO CARRY CUSTOMERS OVER YOUR SHOULDER! IN FACT, YOUR JOB IS NOTHING BECAUSE YOU’RE FIRED!”

There they were: the two words Mikkel had expected to hear eventually, but hoped to put off for as long as possible. So much for that. He nodded, turned toward the back door—then paused and grabbed the ice and first aid kit on his way out. His eye was starting to throb, and it wasn’t like he could get any _more_ fired, after all.

Outside, Mikkel took a deep breath. Another job down. Well, he could handle that. There were other jobs out there. Other bars that needed someone like him to keep the riffraff away.

“Hey, I don’t mean to complain, but...could you put me down now? I don’t _actually_ want to be carried everywhere, that was a joke.”

Mikkel almost dropped Sigrun in surprise. He’d forgotten he was still carrying her.

“Sorry.” He set her on her feet. “You can probably go back inside, if you want. Olsen might shout at you, but he doesn’t have a bouncer anymore.”

Sigrun brushed herself off. “Nah, that place was getting on my nerves. And weren’t you going to take a look at my thumb?” She wiggled the offending digit and winced.

“Hmm.” At least she could move it—that was usually a good sign. “I can’t tell for sure without an x-ray. And I’m not a doctor,” he added belatedly.

Sigrun waved his words away with her free hand. “I don’t need a doctor, just someone who can splint this.”

“You _do_ need to see a doctor, but until you can get to one you’ll have to make do with a splint. And ice,” Mikkel added, opening the first aid kit with a weary sigh.

“Which you have! I like you, Mads, you’re like the boy scout of back-alley patch jobs.”

Mikkel glared up from his bandaging. “Excuse me?”

“You’re prepared,” Sigrun elaborated.

That wasn’t the part he’d been questioning. _“Mads?”_

“Yep, I’m gonna call you that. It’s badass.”

“It is _not,_ and anyway our acquaintance is unlikely to last long enough for us to require nicknames. As soon as I finish taping this _I’m_ going home, and _you_ can go to whatever hole in the wall you prefer—”

A shout from the mouth of the alley cut him off. “Dats deb! Dats da bitch who broke by doze, and dat guy helped—”

“Ah, shit,” Sigrun spat, “that asshole is back.”

“And he brought friends,” Mikkel observed. Three of them, and two were at least as tall as Mikkel. He glanced over his shoulder, noting that the alley dead-ended in a brick wall too tall to climb. He knew from experience that the door to the bar locked automatically, so there was no getting out that way. Which only left one option, really.

“Ooh, this is gonna be _fun,”_ Sigrun said. She cracked the knuckles on her uninjured hand and grinned from ear to ear.

“That’s not the word I would use,” Mikkel said. But then there was no more time for words, only the unspoken bloody poetry of fists and feet and elbows.

* * *

 

In the end, they won—inasmuch as anyone can win a dirty back-alley brawl—but not without a little damage. Mikkel limped to the alley’s entrance, using the wall to support himself, and nodded at Sigrun. She’d acquired a spectacular black eye, and blood spotted her exposed skin. He was pretty sure most of it wasn’t hers, but it was hard to tell.

“The last one got away,” she said, turning away from the three prone figures. Mikkel had kept just enough of his compassion to make sure they were breathing and had no obvious head injuries; beyond that, he didn’t care if they spent the night lying on the cold ground.

“Let him go,” Mikkel said. “Maybe he’ll sober up enough to get some medical assistance for his friends.”

A siren sounded in the distance. Sigrun groaned. “Or he called the cops. C’mon, Mads, let’s beat it.”

“Surely if we tell them what happened—”

She fixed him with a glare. “And spend the rest of the night answering questions and maybe sitting in a cell? I’d rather go somewhere that has booze. Come on, I know a place, it isn’t far.” She trotted off, not missing a beat in her heels. Mikkel stifled a groan and shambled after her.

 _I don’t know why I’m following this crazy woman. I could just stay and wait for the police._ Maybe it was because a part of him knew he looked like the sort of person who could beat three men senseless, and the only witness who could corroborate his self-defense story was currently speeding away as fast as her stilettos could carry her. Or maybe it was because wherever she was going sounded more interesting than a police station. _And I could really,_ really _use a drink right now,_ he admitted to himself.

Then he rounded a corner and found Sigrun straddling a chain-link fence as tall as him. _Okay, maybe I don’t need a drink that badly after all._

His reluctance must have shown on his face. “What, scared of a little climbing, Mads?” Sigrun taunted. She flipped her other leg over the fence with practiced ease and dropped to the ground.

Generations of Madsen stubbornness took over. “No. Merely skeptical about the wisdom of such a maneuver. Isn’t there a way to this mystery location of yours that _doesn’t_ involve climbing fences?”

There it was again, that wicked grin. “There is, but it’s not as fun. Or as fast,” she added, “and I think we want to get off the street before the cops find us. Don’t you agree?” The sirens were getting louder.

Mikkel did agree. Unfortunately, climbing fences did not agree with him. He managed to get to the top without too much trouble—though the fence shook and groaned under his weight—but his landing was anything but graceful. _It would have been better,_ he mused, _if I’d landed on my feet. Or if the ground was a little softer. Or if this puddle wasn’t here._ The puddle was probably the worst part, since he _might_ have been all right if he’d merely landed badly, tripped, and smashed his face into the ground. But coming up soaked with grimy alley water and a mouthful of gravel— _not a tooth, please don’t let that be a tooth_ —was insult added to injury.

_This must be the worst day of my life. And it’s all because of—_

“Damn, that was impressive, Mads! You take your knocks like a real champ, you know? Not even a whimper.”

Mikkel glared up at Sigrun. He searched for words to express how utterly reckless and insane and _stupid_ she was, but for once he couldn’t think of anything to say. And she must have taken his silence for agreement, because she reached a hand down to help him up with another of those wicked grins. Absurdly, Mikkel felt his own mouth answer with a painful smirk. _What. The. Hell._

Sigrun hauled Mikkel to his feet. “Isn’t this the most fun you’ve ever had? Come on, let’s go celebrate!”

Mikkel finally found some words. “I hate you _so much.”_

Sigrun laughed and punched his shoulder with her less-broken hand. “I like you too, Mads. I have a feeling this is going to be a beautiful friendship.”

 

SIGRUN: "Hasn't this been an AWESOME night?!? We should do this again!"

MIKKEL: "...If this is your idea of an awesome night, I'd hate to see what you consider a bad one."

**Author's Note:**

> Ahahaha this is the most violent fic I've ever written. But honestly...how could Sigrun and Mikkel meet in a bar and _not_ get involved in a bar fight? 
> 
> I thought about writing more at the end, but basically the night finishes out with the two of them drinking at a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar called Valhalla (full of rough-and-ready characters, but luckily no dead warriors) where the owner knows Sigrun and their bruises-and-blood aesthetic blends right in. When Mikkel finally drags himself home he swears he's never talking to that crazy redhead ever again, but the next morning Sigrun shows up with donuts and informs him that they're officially friends for life. As it turns out, she's correct.
> 
> Also, Sigrun's thumb is not actually broken. But I did spend a lot of time researching broken thumbs before coming to that conclusion (because really, if it was broken she should have gone to the doctor). On that note, this fic is full of questionable decisions (like not going to the doctor if you think your thumb might be broken) which the author does not in any way endorse.
> 
> And...one last thing...my headcanon is that Sigrun has made many a questionable hair decision in her youth, and Mikkel probably rocked a ponytail at some point, so I decided to draw both of those in the illustration. Hopefully they still look like themselves.


End file.
